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She reached for a linen handkerchief and gently dabbed at her sister’s damp cheeks. “I will not let this happen.”

Penelope sniffled. “But how? Father won’t listen. He’s already decided.”

That, at least, was true. George Morton had never been a man to reconsider a decision once made—especially not when it came to what he saw as beneficial to himself.

“I will find a way.”

Penelope exhaled shakily, nodding, though her grip on Isadora’s hands remained tight. “Do you promise?”

A moment’s hesitation. Not because Isadora lacked conviction, but because she was trying to figure out how she could fulfill that promise.

But then her resolve hardened.

“I promise,” she whispered.

And she meant it.

Isadora lay awake long after Penelope had drifted into an exhausted sleep.

She needed power. Influence. Someone who could stop this marriage before it became irreversible.

Her father would not be swayed. The Marquess was well-connected, wealthy despite his gambling, and had the backing of many of George’s powerful acquaintances.

To fight this battle, she needed someone with more power than both of them combined.

She had heard of him, of course. He was ruthless , they said. A man who did not play by the rules, a man who had earned his wealth and status in a world that did not give anything without a fight.

He was a man who could make things happen .

The memory of Daphne’s voice echoed in her mind.

He has connections in the most dangerous of places. If he wanted something done, it would be done.

That was exactly the sort of man she needed.

Isadora slipped out of the house, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The servants were long asleep, and she had ensured that Penelope would not wake before she left.

Her heart pounded as she secured her horse and rode into the night, the streets of London fading into the dark countryside.

Her destination was not far, but the ride felt endless. Each passing second brought new doubts.

Would he turn her away?

Would he demand something of her that she could not give?

Would he be worse than the Marquess himself?

But none of that mattered. If she did nothing, Penelope’s fate was sealed, and she would never forgive herself for it.

She arrived an hour before dawn, and she slid off her horse, gathering her skirts as she approached the side entrance. It would too bold of her to use the front doors—this had to be done in secrecy.

Knocking urgently against the wooden staff door, she stepped back, her pulse racing.

It took nearly a full minute before it creaked open.

A butler, dressed in his nightclothes, blinked at her in shock.

“Can I help you, My Lady?” He regarded her with hesitance.

“I need to speak with His Grace,” she whispered. “It is urgent.”

The butler’s expression tightened. “His Grace does not receive visitors at this hour. I apologize, but you must leave and return at a more suitable hour.”

Isadora pressed her lips together. She had come too far to be turned away like this.

“I know,” she said. “But this cannot wait. Please. It is urgent that I meet him.”

The butler hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the sheer audacity of her presence. But something softened in his expression, perhaps it was because of the desperation he saw in her eyes.

Then, sighing, he stepped aside. “Wait here.”

She exhaled shakily as he disappeared into the depths of the house. Minutes passed, and then the butler returned.

“You are to follow me,” he said firmly. “It is very unusual for His Grace to make allowances like this, but he has made one, luckily, as he was awake.”

“I just wish to speak to him once,” she said, feeling a wave of relief wash over her.

At least I have a chance.

That was all she needed. The butler led her up the staircase and then down the hallway to stop in front of what appeared to be a study.

“Rest assured you shall conduct yourself in a proper manner, or you shall be escorted out,” the butler warned, and then slowly, he opened the door for her to enter. “Go on then, My Lady. He is inside.”

It was too late to turn back now.

With slow, hesitant steps, Isadora ventured inside.

A man sat behind the large desk, his face half-obscured by the dim light.

She had never seen him up so close like this before. The first thing she noticed was his size.

He was… massive. Broad-shouldered and impossibly still. He leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him as he regarded her with a stare.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“You are either very brave,” he said, “or very, very foolish.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine, but she forced herself to stand taller. Perhaps I am both.

“I had no other choice.”

His expression did not change.

“You always have a choice,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough. “Most would have chosen differently.”

Isadora clenched her hands into fists at her sides. “Most are not in my position.”

A pause. Then, ever so slightly, his lips tilted—though it was not quite a smile. “And what position is that?”

“I am Lady Isadora Morton, daughter of the Earl of Young.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise. Something else. Amusement? Annoyance?

“So you are.” His voice remained unreadable. “And what does the daughter of an earl want with me?”

“I need your help.” Isadora swallowed her pride. It was not an easy thing for her to ask for help.